


Night Market

by anomalyanatoly



Category: Chess - Rice/Ulvaeus/Andersson
Genre: But read it as if they're in love, Chess in Concert (2008), Late Night Conversations, M/M, Talking, They are character foils and I think we should appreciate that, like Talking Chess but less dramatic, or something like that, they don't really get together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-20 13:27:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30005574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomalyanatoly/pseuds/anomalyanatoly
Summary: ... There it was, that knife again which stirred his insides with gentle anxiety.How do you do it, Trumper? How do you unearth the thoughts I fear to acknowledge?
Relationships: Anatoly Sergievsky/Frederick Trumper
Comments: 3
Kudos: 5





	Night Market

“Evenin’, traitor.”

Anatoly turned his head toward the direction of the voice, certain it was addressed to him. He could hardly act surprised when it was Trumper—Freddie—standing behind him with his trademark smirk like he wasn’t as lost as he was in the foreign city. He observed Freddie; his jacket draped lose over his shoulders and part of his collar was unbuttoned. The faint glint in his eyes told him he wasn’t here for a fight, but with the wildcard, who truly knew what he wanted.

“And to you, Trumper,” he said, turned his head back to observe the street market. He noticed Freddie take his place next to him, to look among the crowd with him. He didn’t sense tension from him. “Don’t have this in America, do you?” he asked.

“Not like this,” he said. “Kind of a shithole back home.”

“That is no surprise,” said Anatoly, and Freddie tipped his head back as he belted out a laugh that seemed quiet in the crowd. _Why are you here,_ he wanted to ask, _talking to me like you’re not trying to sabotage me?_ He wondered if he was too lax to make any judgements on his potential ulterior motive. His paranoia hadn’t flared in some time. So, he proceeded bluntly. “If you’re here to talk about Florence—”

“I don’t give a shit about Florence,” muttered Freddie. Anatoly felt himself shift, unsure of how to take his sudden coldness. The air hung heavy—It did to him, at least. He stared at Freddie, tried to read him like he did when he wanted to tread someone carefully, get a better perspective. “I used to love her, sure. All I’m here to do is get her father out. ”

“By convincing me to throw the match and return to the Soviet Union?”

Freddie looked at him. He noted the darkness under his eyes and the lines between his brows. “Something like that.” He strained a smile. “I care more about chess than some family feud, though. I don’t care much about her father than I do about a game.”

Anatoly couldn’t help but admire—in a twisted way—his selfishness. It edged the definition of feral and unforgiving, like a knife turning the contents of his gut. “I won’t need much convincing at all to begin with. I’ve already decided I’ll return with my family and help Florence in the process.”

He looked to be soaking in his words, glanced away when he said, “The hell will you get out of returning with your family? Ten more years of an unhappy marriage and mentally unstable children?” Anatoly wanted to argue. He expected an argument when he showed up, but he sounded withered—exhausted. “If you’re gonna walk out on children, you should just do it where they can’t see you.”

Something in his blood boiled—wanted to say that what he was doing was for the better for the people around him. _For the better,_ he thought. _The damage is already done, there is no better._ His relationship with Svetlana failed before it had already begun, and he and Florence were based upon lies and fanatical dreams. There it was, that knife again which stirred his insides with gentle anxiety. _How do you do it, Trumper? How do you unearth the thoughts I fear to acknowledge?_

“What do you suggest I do?” asked Anatoly.

“Defend your title,” said Freddie. “It’s the best option you have at keeping what little dignity you’re still holding onto.” He turned, faced the Russian and weighed a hand on his shoulder. Anatoly expected him to say something but he didn’t. He felt the momentary grip of his hand, and a final pat before he disappeared into the crowd.

He wondered if those were truly all the words they could exchange with each other on a friendly basis. _You’re my friend,_ thought Anatoly, _even if you don’t think I am._ He felt as though Freddie was on his side, but still he seemed unreachable—distant. He had thought to do right by Florence, but her problems could wait, he decided, because as far as he was concerned, Molokov and Walter were full of shit. It had seemed to him that Freddie understood him—knew him—long before they met.


End file.
